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The Hanukkah Gun By
Six-Gun
Scribe (SASS #1883).
Euphemia Johnson, who took her role as Panacea’s oldest spinster quite seriously as she did everything in life, eyed the wares in Solomon Pliskin’s second hand store, looking for bargains like a detective surveying a crime scene for clues. "Sol, what is that?" She pointed an accusing pinky at a new item in the store. The Russian-born immigrant sighed. The short, slender Jewish merchant noted that he tended to sigh quite a lot whenever Euphemia – Famie to her friends of whom he was not one because of his religion – visited his store. "It is a gun. Last week, when a cowboy is drunk and gets arrested for creating a disturbance, he is fined. Needing money to pay for his crime, he comes to me and I buy it from him." There was another reason for acquiring it, but he kept that to himself. The Colt resided in its holster, the gun belt coiled loosely like a rattler waiting to strike. And like a snake, it seemed out of place amidst the pots and pans, the bric-a-brac, the tschotkes, as Pliskin called them. The gun’s once-brilliant color case blueing done by the Colt factory in Hartford, Connecticut, was eroded by neglect, fading into a dull brown patina. "Does it even work?" Another sigh. "My son, Jacob, who is mechanically minded but who I am hoping will become a lawyer despite that, he looks at it and tells me it is fine. It shoots and at a small portion of the price for one that is fresh from the factory. I take what is old and worn, apply some care and a little polish, and make it affordable by asking the smallest pittance. It is, as my store sign has been telling the people of Panacea for the past year, ‘Just Like New.’" He refrained from saying that he knew those same people of Panacea called his modest emporium "Second-Hand Sol’s." Or that he had been a lawyer in his homeland of Russia, the occupation that he wished for his son one day. But the new land, with its laws and language, thwarted his legal ambition. In the meantime, his family needed to eat and so he put his mind and energy as a merchant. A strong back had always accompanied his strong mind. He had been forced from Russia by the pogroms against the Jews, prejudice that was enforced at the point of saber wielded by a Cossack. He shook his head. Solomon was a fine name and he wished the American love of familiarity and nicknames had not truncated it to "Sol." Still, when in Rome … He had also noted that in this land of the free, only white Americans seemed to have last names. Minorities were always addressed by their first names, even by children, a subtle way of taking away a basic courtesy. Still, there are worse names to be called, he reflected. And Pliskin knew them all by heart, having heard them in America, so many thousands of miles from Russian rule. You can escape the Cossacks, but hatred and prejudice are citizens of the world, he thought. They cut you with words here, not sabers. And none in Panacea knew them better than Teddy Murdock, an ignorant lout of a bigot who had decided to make Pliskin the special target of his hatred of anything he couldn’t understand. And that is quite a lot, thought the merchant, and allowed himself a small smile at his enemy’s expense. Perhaps I will have a little surprise for him the next time he utters them. But I will not let him and his bigotry affect me today for at sundown today we celebrate the first night of Hanukkah. We will light candles on the hanukkia, eat latkes made by my wife, Hannah, and my daughter Rachel, and tell the story of how Judah Maccabee defeated those who would oppress the Jews. We will spin the dreidel for prizes of the chocolate coins we call gelt and talk about how a great miracle happened there. And we will give thanks for the blessing of being together as a family in this new land that we call our home now. With that in mind, he removed his black sleeve protectors that kept his cuffs clean and his apron, and prepared for the trip home. He added one extra item under his long overcoat. On his way back to his cottage, he met Panacea deputy sheriff Verdell Hubbard, who was making his rounds of the town. "Howdy, Sol. Calling it a day?" "Yes, Deputy Hubbard. Tonight we begin celebrating Hanukkah." "Sorta like Christmas, I guess, what with the candles and presents." Pliskin winced at the comparison. While Christians made much of this time of year, Jews saw Hanukkah as a minor holiday. It is not our way to call attention to a military victory, he thought. We focus instead on the miracle of the lamp oil in the temple at Jerusalem lasting eight days instead of just one. The light is life, our way of life, our faith that sees us through the darkest days of oppression. They walked in silence together, the younger man keeping an eye out for Murdock. He had heard about the taunting and name-calling and hoped that his presence would protect Pliskin on this special night. He was wrong. "Look at the Christ-killer! Probably on his way home to celebrate some heathen holiday!" Teddy Murdock had a face like a fist, which was fitting because of the way he battered and baited people who he thought were inferior. His bulk loomed large in the middle of the street, a gun jutting from his hip. Hubbard stepped forward, but Pliskin restrained him with a hand on his forearm. The strength of his fingers surprised the deputy. "No, this I handle myself." "I don’t want you getting hurt. This is my job," insisted the deputy. "He only comes back after you leave. And what about the times when you are not here? No, tonight I face him by myself. Especially tonight." Hubbard backed off, but kept a hand close to his Webley revolver. "Mr. Murdock, it is the first night of Hanukkah and my family waits for me. Please let me pass in peace." "When hell freezes over." "Very well. I was hoping it would not come to this." Pliskin undid the front of his coat and swept it back to reveal the holstered Colt that resembled the one from his shop. His hand drifted over to its brown grips. "As you say out here, shut up or put up." Murdock froze. "What the …." "It is simple. You have a gun and I have a gun. It is, how you say, the code of the West, where every man carries the law on his hip. I am a peaceable man, but to you I say stop. No more names. No more insults. Leave my family and me alone. Forever. I have made my choice. Now it is time for you to make yours." "You’re bluffing!" "And you are stalling." "You wouldn’t dare!" "I am daring you right now. Draw or walk away for good." Murdock was confused by the little man’s defiance and his refusal to be intimidated by threats. His mouth was drier than a dust devil and he couldn’t seem to swallow. His big mitt lay an inch from the butt of his own revolver. Then two inches. Then six inches. He lowered it to his side, head down, gazing at his boot tops. "From now on, I am ‘Mr. Pliskin’ when we meet." "Yeah, I guess," muttered Murdoch, glancing sideways to see if anyone was witnessing his humiliation at the hands of the small, balding shopkeeper. "What was that?" asked Pliskin, his hand gripping the Colt. "I mean, yes, Mr. Pliskin. No more name-calling." "Then you may go. And Mr. Murdock?" "Uh, yes, Mr. Pliskin, sir?" "Happy Hanukkah." It felt good, like when he made a closing argument in court. Well, I’ll be. Teddy Murdock slinking off with his tail between his legs, thought Hubbard as he relaxed. The two men continued their walk to Pliskin’s cottage. "That was quite a risk you took," said Hubbard. "’Scratch a bully, find a coward,’ my father always says to me," said Pliskin. "Maybe it is the military part of this holiday, my heritage, that moves me to be like Judah Maccabee this evening." "Good thing you had that gun when you did." "This?" Pliskin brought the gun up and poked the barrel into his mouth. As Hubbard watched in horror, he bit the end of the barrel off and chewed. "My son makes a mold from the gun in my shop," he explained. "We melt the gelt and use it to make a gun of chocolate for the holiday. I confess I always have this sweet tooth." "Well, I’ll be," laughed a flummoxed Hubbard. There was no steel in the gun, but plenty in your backbone, he thought. "It is not the gun that matters. All that counts is that one good Jew stands against hatred and bigotry and says, ‘This is enough.’ No more running. And now, I am going to join my family and tell them that today maybe a little miracle happened here." He smiled and wiped a trace of chocolate from his lips. "Good evening, Deputy Hubbard. Happy Hanukkah. I know you are Christian, but all good men and their families deserve light and love in their lives." "Happy Hanukkah to you, too, So--, I mean Mr. Pliskin," said Hubbard, correcting his old habit. "Happy Hanukkah indeed." ###
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